


i can hear it now (like i heard it then)

by kay_okay



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, New York City, TATINOF, Tour, Tour Bus, on tour, tatinof usa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 02:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10323665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_okay/pseuds/kay_okay
Summary: Dan watches Phil light up, and suddenly feels like everything's in slow motion. They're still making their way up 7th, Times Square’s persistent neon glow casting waves of pinks and greens and yellows onto the pale of Phil’s face like a projector to a wall. He's struck by his own memory, their own night up on the Manchester Eye, surrounded by another city dark and light at the same time.He doesn’t hear a word of Phil’s story.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title and lyrics included lifted from ["i dare you" by the xx](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lGBn9_aEtB8). story based on [this](https://twitter.com/achika_/status/785210916170149888) and [this](https://twitter.com/achika_/status/842286581457154048). 
> 
> this is a work of fiction. this is a fictional story about fictional representations of real people. none of the events are true. no profit was made from this work. all mistakes are my own.
> 
> thank you vic for your help!

 

_ a rush of blood is not enough  
i need my feelings set on fire _

 

\--

 

The bus doesn’t so much “slow to a stop” as it does shift violently to a low gear, the transmission groaning out, gears grinding. It does the trick though, wheels coasting as they come up on the Lincoln Tunnel toll booths and are met promptly with a wall of traffic. 

Mike, their bus driver, shouts towards the back of the bus that it'll only be a few minutes to pass the line and pay, a few more to make it through the tunnel, if they still want to come up front? Dan calls back affirmatively from the bedroom and shakes Phil gently awake.

“Huh, what,” Phil snuffles, twitches his nose, mumbles, “Filming again?”

“I’m not filming you again. Mike said we're almost there. Do you still want to watch?”

Dan speaks quietly, downward past the DS in his hands and in the direction of Phil’s head on his belly. He feels Phil stir slightly, shift subtly to press the bridge of his nose into Dan’s well-worn jumper. Phil breathes in slowly, waking up from a dream. 

“You were making me a toastie,” Phil murmurs absently. “In our flat in Manchester.” 

Phil sounds a million miles away, thousands to be exact, and Dan makes a pained sound at a memory. “The breakfast bar,” he says wistfully and Phil sighs, sadly agreeing. 

It only takes a minute for Phil to wake fully, arching his back against the clean sheets and groaning in satisfaction at the sound his spine makes as the bones crack in a neat row --  _ crrrrrrrick!  _ Dan winces. 

“It's one thing when it's your own bones cracking but to hear someone else’s --” He says this every time. Phil doesn't acknowledge it with a response, just sits up and handily tugs Dan’s DS out of his grip, snaps the gold-colored panels shut. “Hey --”

Phil ignores him, single-mindedly pushes his way up into Dan’s space and kisses him soundly, one innocent press of his lips against Dan’s, two, three, the fourth is longer and lingers, the fifth he wraps the cotton of Dan’s black tee between his fingers and grips, by the sixth Dan is finally responding, the seam of his lips breaking to let Phil in, hands cradling the back of Phil’s head, and then it's too late. 

Phil pulls back quick but stays close enough to slide his palms up to Dan’s shoulders, using them as leverage to emerge from the pile of blankets they'd built up and plant his feet on the floor. “Morning,” he says happily, dropping his mouth one more time in a fleeting press against Dan’s cheek. He's across the back bedroom’s threshold before Dan can even open his eyes again. 

“It's after midnight you dingbat,” Dan calls down the hallway, face burning and palms tingling, a muffled curse on his lips at Phil for leaving him like this. Phil, of course, doesn't answer, just hitches up his pyjama bottoms by the waist and throws a mischievous grin over his shoulder. 

 

\--

 

They’re taking this route because they’d booked their own hotel room east of Columbus Circle, a suite near the top floor and overlooking the south end of Central Park. Dan had peered over Phil’s shoulder in their Atlanta dressing room, Yelp page open and browsing photos. 

“You have a thing for sky views, don’t you?” Dan had asked, tying one towel around his waist as another came up to pat at his hair. 

Phil had just shrugged a shoulder and hit the “Book” button. “I guess you could say they’re special to me, yeah,” he’d commented.

Dan hadn’t responded, just bent over his suitcase and rifled through it. Phil had watched over the top of his laptop as Dan’s cheek dimpled in a small smile. 

Now though, Dan catches up with Phil at the front of the bus. They’re just starting the descent into the tunnel, Phil already engaged in a conversation with their driver about the pros and cons of working and living in a city, or commuting in from a smaller town. 

“I prefer driving in, myself,” Mike says, eyes on the road and hands at about nine and three, gently turning the oversized steering wheel as the bus coasts through the tunnel. “Yeah, you're a little farther away from the action but now that we have kids, I’m glad they’re growing up in a place where they can play in the yard, walk to school, go trick-or-treating, all that.” 

Mike lives in a suburb near Miami, big and burly and loud and looking like an extra from  _ The Sopranos.  _ He’d be intimidating if he wasn’t always cracking jokes only Dads could appreciate and if his standard uniform wasn’t khakis and garish Hawaiian-print shirts. 

Phil’s nodding along, right elbow leaning on the front rail and whole body pivoted toward their driver. That’s how Phil always listens, tuned in, like you’re the only person in the room or within a ten-mile radius. Dan remembers it being almost intimidating when they first started talking, even over their shitty Skype connection when Phil’s face was made of about ten pixels. He wasn’t used to someone being so interested in him, just his everyday life, his thoughts on the world, his aspirations. Dan grew to like the feeling of sharing his world with this other person, a tiny planet with just two inhabitants, miles of ground to cover and what felt like a never ending amount of time to accomplish it. 

Phil and Mike exchange comments back and forth, and it doesn’t take long before Dan can see the end of the tunnel getting larger as they near it. A wide patch of building, lit only by oncoming headlights and sepia-toned street lamps. 

New York City blooms out in front of Dan and Phil, side by side at the front of their bus with their hands along the handrails and gazing up through the glass as the tunnel melts away completely. They've been here before but this is different, the city dark and light at the same time, simultaneously loud with life and muted with quiet reservation. It feels like a reverse fishbowl from behind the bus’ wide windshield, Dan and Phil staring out with wide eyes as the city lights pass them by in orange streaks.

They drive up on 8th towards the park but then down again, cut across to 7th so they can dissect Times Square in half. Mike says it's the best view. “It's like being in the middle of a neon jungle,” he promises. 

They turn the corner and start their descent south, Times Square ahead of them like a bright horizon of light. It’s late, well after 1am now, and Dan’s surprised by how many people are out on the street still. It’s a breezy and warm spring night though, Mike’s side window cracked a little and fragrant air wafting in. It's a mix of fried foods, something sweet like cotton candy or a looming rainstorm, and bus exhaust. An eclectic variety of things that Dan finds oddly comforting. 

“Smells like Piccadilly,” Phil grins over at him, reading his mind. Dan has to grin back, nodding. 

“My wife and I love this city,” Mike comments when the light turns green. “We met here. We're both from Boston originally but didn’t know each other. Our neighboring high schools had come up here on a school trip the same week during our senior year. We spent almost all week together seeing the sights -- Empire State, Ellis Island, Statue of Liberty.” Mike gets a wry smile on his face and glances at them. “My buddies were making so much fun of me. I never left her side that week.”

He points up, a brightly lit sign that says  _ Palace _ coming up on their left, and Dan and Phil turn to look at a large theatre, ornate detailing on the front of the building above a dim marquee. “It was our last day in the city and we had a free night. I bought two last-minute tickets to see  _ Beauty and the Beast _ , surprised her after our last dinner with our classmates.”

Dan and Phil are fully enthralled in the story now, completely dialed in and listening en rapture. Dan doesn't even realize he's gripping the back of Phil’s shirt in anticipation, Phil’s eyes like saucers behind his glasses, hands clasped earnestly beneath his chin. “And?” Phil finally utters. 

“She kissed me after the show in that lobby,” he says, gesturing out the window as they pass its darkened façade. “Five years later it was on its closing run, I brought her back and proposed to her there.” 

They're unequivocally a mess. Dan makes a sort of whining, wheezy sound, an  _ awwwww  _ of a tortured and hopeless romantic handed a gift-wrapped happy ending. Phil turns to look at him, his eyes soft and smile hidden behind his hands. “Help, I'm dying from cute,” he proclaims.

Phil turns back to Mike, mouth stretched in an open grin. “That’s like that one time…” He starts, launches into a story about two of his university friends that got engaged, an elaborate proposal on the Manchester Eye at midnight. He’s talking animatedly, looking back and forth between Dan and Mike, gesticulating, laughing into his hands, pushing his glasses across the bridge of his nose. 

Dan watches Phil light up, and suddenly feels like everything's in slow motion. They're still making their way up 7th, Times Square’s persistent neon glow casting waves of pinks and greens and yellows onto the pale of Phil’s face like a projector to a wall. He's struck by his own memory, their own night up on the Manchester Eye, surrounded by another city dark and light at the same time. 

He doesn’t hear a word of Phil’s story. 

 

\--

 

“It looks so serene from up here,” Phil comments, standing beside Dan at the wide picture window to lean his forehead against the glass. The hotel room is dim and peaceful, just one bedside lamp on and setting a soft glow over everything, letting the city’s light illuminate them from below. 

Dan can only nod, staring out into city, the lights melting in front of him while he’s lost in thought. He tries to focus on a point but can't seem to be able to. 

“Hey.” He feels a nudge on his elbow, turns to see Phil peering at him quizzically. “You’re quiet tonight.” He says it simply, an observation without a press to talk if Dan doesn’t want to.

He finds Phil’s eyes -- they have a calming quality to them that Dan isn't sure stems from the tranquil color or just comfortable familiarity. He doesn't know what to say. He always knows what to say and it makes him a little nervous, if he's being honest. 

“Dan, you're kind of freaking me out. Are you okay? What are you thinking about?” Phil looks concerned, turns a little to face Dan and slides a hand up to hold gently at his arm. 

Dan thinks of the rest of this tour, going across the US and Europe and Australia, getting to do something he loves with the person he loves. He thinks of getting home to their flat and their friends and family, of their future. Of a house and a dog or two and a piece of paper they both sign to make things official that have felt official for a long time already. 

“Everything,” Dan smiles, laughs a fluttery kiss onto Phil’s surprised lips, his hands tipping back Phil’s cradled face. “I'm thinking about everything we’re going to get to do.” They fall, lacking grace, onto their mattress, and Phil’s musical laughter is the best thing Dan’s ears have heard all night. 

But these things can wait, Dan reminds himself comfortably. Wait until they're back in London, back in their flat with the view of the chip shop, the cracked tile in the kitchen, the patches of burnt floorboard in front of the fireplace. Fresh with appreciation for their bedsheets and sofa creases, for the dependably-flickering light at the bottom of their stairs. Back home. 

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://kay-okays.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/achika_) <3


End file.
